Artful Living After Loss with Tamara Beachumhttps://tamarabeachum.com
Mon, 19 Feb 2018 17:24:31 +0000en-UShourly1https://wordpress.org/?v=4.9.4Five Minutes of the Old Mehttps://tamarabeachum.com/five-minutes-of-the-old-me/
https://tamarabeachum.com/five-minutes-of-the-old-me/#respondMon, 22 Jan 2018 12:05:28 +0000http://tamarabeachum.com/?p=3411Well, that was a tangled mess. Somehow I’d managed to get my fishing line wrapped around itself in a knot that reminded me of the tangles I used to get in my hair as a child. I sat down on the bank with our fly fishing guide as he cut line and retied flies. Watching him use the clamp and clippers dangling from his outfit, I had a flash of memory of watching Ken in similar motion.

“You have two kids?” I asked, suddenly thinking about fathers.

“Two boys, 19 months and 5 weeks.” The second son had been injured during childbirth. Nothing too serious but painful for the little guy. We talked about nursing; it’s the only thing that soothes him. His wife has struggled more with the demands after this birth. I told him about my own nursing experience as a new mom and the time the young man fishing downstream seemed to have turned me into his own personal pacifier. How hard it was and how important at the same time.

“Sometimes you feel like you just need five minutes of the old you,” I said.

“I can understand that,” he replied.

His wife had agreed that he needed some time to go fishing when she was safely harbored in the hospital. He took an hour and caught 30 fish in that same spot. He was fully himself in that moment.

My son created his own tangle so the guide left me holding my partially repaired line and went to help him. Our conversation had given me a glimpse back to that early life when the kids were babies and Ken and I were just starting out. Five minutes of the old me.

Taking up this activity of fly fishing that was only Ken’s made me nostalgic. He has been on my mind quite a bit as I prepare myself to have his doppelgänger move off to the land of fly-fishing far from home. I studied the tiny fly the guide had asked me to hold and noticed, just beyond it, a heart-shaped rock on the bank of the Big Thompson River. He’s here, even when he’s not here.

“You always seem to find heart-shaped rocks,” my son marveled when I showed it to him later. “It’s as if they are pointed out to me,” I smiled.

My son and I have been fishing several times this summer. It’s something I did as a child with my grandfather and has given me that five minutes of the old me with Papa by my side too. I miss that time with him and I’m grateful for whatever synapses connected to bring those images back to me so vividly.

One day I’ll reflect on these moments I’m living right now. I don’t know what it is that will remind me as I sit here but something will lead me to the five minutes we have just created. The parent I am right now and the young adult about to strike out on his own will be the central characters in that memory. I imagine I will be grateful and a little wistful, living both feelings together, and happy for the glimpse.

]]>https://tamarabeachum.com/five-minutes-of-the-old-me/feed/0“Get Over It” and Other Unhelpful Advicehttps://tamarabeachum.com/get-over-it/
https://tamarabeachum.com/get-over-it/#respondSun, 20 Nov 2016 19:43:21 +0000http://tamarabeachum.com/?p=3248I originally wrote this piece for the Creative Grief Studio and wanted to share it here as well. Post-election many people found themselves unexpectedly grieving over the outcome. As will happen, there was also judgement about the validity of that grief. Ironically, I saw examples within the widowed community. People who have been told - much to their anger - how to grieve were, in turn, telling others how to grieve, or not to grieve or to “get over it” after two days. Just stop. Trying to control the grief of others does not bring us together.

Escaping the news of the recent U.S. election is difficult even for those outside of the country. This campaign season was particularly divisive and many now find themselves moved in unanticipated ways. Political events and changes can have unexpected meaning and the resulting grief and anxiety can be very real.

No matter what outcome we may have thought to be “right” it’s important to let those who are struggling feel what they feel without shame. If you find yourself in a position to support others who may feel grief over these recent events here are a few tips to keep in mind:

Remember that people are grieving. They are assessing a real situation and experiencing a real human process so they can find their agency, and figure out what steps to take next.

Allow them to feel what they feel on their own timeline. Rushing someone through is not helpful.

Consider how the hierarchy of loss may be impacting their experience. Are others minimizing their experience because they perceive this as an insignificant loss or not a loss at all? Are they doing it to themselves?

Avoid phrases that can shame people who are grieving. “Negative thoughts are bad” or “change your thoughts, change your life” clichés are oversimplifications of complex philosophical ideas, and when used in shorthand ways like this, they often come off as oppressive.

Recognize that this grief may feel familiar because it has echoes of other griefs we’ve had; old grief may be triggered through the physical experiences of this new situation.

Remember there is a diversity of meaning in each person’s grief. Those who are grieving aren’t necessarily grieving the same thing as their lives may be impacted differently by potential changes. One person’s concern may be anticipated loss of health insurance, while another’s is a fractured relationship with someone they love, and still another may be dealing with the anxiety of their children when they feel they do not have answers themselves. Do not assume you know what someone is feeling. Exercise curiosity.

If you are feeling grief too, helping others can be a challenge. Don’t forget to tend yourself.

When they are ready, guide your clients in finding their agency. What actions can they take to feel their grief and use the resulting meaning if they choose to do so? How can they take care of themselves now and going forward?

Here are some ways that others have begun to find their resilience and resourcefulness. They are dealing with grief and their emotions in ways that are meaningful for them that range from simple and local to more expansive. There is no, one, single, right way.

Make donations, no matter how small, to organizations that align with your values

Boycott companies that do not align with your values

Participate in peaceful demonstrations as you are able

Join letter writing campaigns or become otherwise politically active

These are just a few of the ways clients might find their resourcefulness, or maybe these are inspirations for entirely new ideas they create themselves. In the Articles We Loved section you will find more suggestions related to this topic.

There are many ways for us and our clients to engage with this kind of grief experience and take meaningful action to live forward. Shame has no place in it. “Get over it” is not a helpful response.

]]>https://tamarabeachum.com/get-over-it/feed/0Sometimes It’s The Little Thingshttps://tamarabeachum.com/sometimes-its-the-little-things/
https://tamarabeachum.com/sometimes-its-the-little-things/#respondSun, 30 Oct 2016 02:08:53 +0000http://tamarabeachum.com/?p=3235I helped my daughter move from the Grand Canyon to Bozeman, MT outside Yellowstone this week. I followed in her car while she drove a U-Haul across 4 states with her life inside. Once again, I couldn’t help but think that her dad should be here so I had a little chat with him to stay close.

As we entered into Page, AZ I got a little choked up. The last time we were all there her father was in remission. Pulling out of town, a hawk flew between our vehicles. If I didn’t know better I would swear he could see me when he looked right down toward me through the windshield.

The next day in Idaho I had to open the windows and keep sipping water to fight off a wave of panic. There is no current reason to be that stressed out except that, again, he should be here. As we dropped out of a mountain range into a valley, The Valley by k.d. lang came up on my iPod. That song sustained me and in that place with the sunset casting a warm glow on the mountains, I heard it in a new way. I really felt like he was with us.
But sometimes I doubt theses signs, you know? Dismiss them. I didn’t find any dimes though, I thought. That’s one that happens pretty frequently when something significant is happening. Sometimes I feel like he’s telling me “pay attention to this moment” when they appear. Surely, this would be an event I should pay attention to, right? But no dimes.

At last, we unloaded her possessions into storage before setting off to hunt for apartments. As I was taking one last look around the empty truck to see if we needed to sweep it out, there it was on the floor, the dime. No other change, just one single dime.

On August 25, 1916, President Woodrow Wilson signed the act creating the National Park Service. This year the parks will celebrate their centennial. The National Parks have been and continue to be important places for our family. We have made memories that will last a lifetime in these special places, some beautiful and some heart-wrenching. None of them would I trade. For me they are places of healing and joy.

Ken and I took a rare solo vacation to Death Valley National Park for his 44th birthday. It was our first National Park adventure out west and we were immediately hooked.

He and the kids spent time in Cades Cove of the Great Smokey National Park while I had to stay home to work. I have few regrets, that I didn’t go with them is one.

We celebrated remission with a two week tour of Utah and Arizona. Ken was able to revisit some of the places he had been to before his illness. He wanted to share those magnificent landscapes with us. He made some of the most spectacular images of his career there.

We spent what would turn out to be our last family Spring Break at the Cumberland Island National Seashore.

We had planned to do an RV trip to Yosemite the following summer. We scattered Ken’s ashes there instead. Half Dome is his monument.

Glacier National Park was the first park I explored while learning how to live forward after such a devastating loss.

Grand Teton was the amazing location of my second wedding when I found love again. My daughter spent three summers working in neighboring Yellowstone National Park.

She now lives in Grand Canyon National Park, just steps from the south rim.

Our son was actively involved in the mission of the National Park Service this summer when he worked for the Youth Conservation Corp. I might have gotten a little choked up seeing him in his NPS uniform for the first time. And now he has taken up his dad’s camera and is finding his own vision.

These places are precious to us. I think Ken’s love for the parks shines through in the images he created. I encourage you to visit the Death Valley, Old West and National Parks galleries where all photos were shot in and around U.S. National Parks to see for yourself. I hope they shine in mine too. Maybe you will even be inspired to go on a National Park adventure of your own.

In this 100th year of the parks we are celebrating and honoring by offering 10% off any Ken Gehle print beginning August 25, 2016 and running for 100 days. (Expires December 3, 2016.) Enter the coupon code NPS100 toward the purchase of any photo on Ken’s website. As always, the proceeds go toward our children’s college educations.

“National parks are the best idea we ever had. Absolutely American, absolutely democratic, they reflect us at our best rather than our worst.” ~ Wallace Stegner, Writer and Environmentalist

If you are near a National Park or can get there easily they will be celebrating the NPS birthday week by offering free admission to all parks August 25 - 28. If you go, I’d love to hear about it!

Have you visited any National Parks? What have they meant to you? Tell me your favorite memory. I’d love to know. Leave a comment in the box below.

Picture a giant warehouse stacked to the ceiling with boxes. Now imagine those boxes are filled with types of losses: divorce, death of a parent, bankruptcy, chronic illness, death of a spouse, pet loss, a child moving to another state, and more. What shelves do you put the losses on? Does pet loss go on a low shelf? That’s not so hard, right? Lost a job. So you just get another one. Simple right? Death of a spouse. Well, that one goes up toward the top. Death of a child…higher, much higher. This is the hierarchy of loss… and it’s not useful. Not only that, it’s hurtful.

“Hard is not relative. Hard is hard.” ~ Ash Beckam

We are often quick to compare our losses to those of others. Sometimes we minimize our own. Do I even have a right to grieve my loss if someone else has one that I consider worse? Sometimes we minimize another person’s loss. Do I get to decide whether or not you have a right to grieve - and for how long - if I believe my loss is worse? Where does all this leave us? The hierarchy is not only a tool of shame but its use can break relationships, even irreparably so.

We live in relationship to our own losses. Those are the ones we feel deeply. We need to feel them to integrate the change that comes about as a result. But we don’t have to compare, instead we can empathize.

About the time my husband died a friend was going through a divorce. If we had compared our losses, placing them on those warehouse shelves, we wouldn’t have been able to be there for each other in the same way. Focused on the shelves, we wouldn’t have been able to truly see each other. One day we were both cleaning out closets. The reasons were different but instead of saying, “Well, at least you can just give his clothes to charity and be done with it,” she said, “Man, that sucks.” Instead of saying to her, “Well, at least you get to see him when you drop off his stuff,” I was able to echo, “Man, that sucks.” We didn’t compare. There was no need and in letting go of the hierarchy we were able to feel heard and understood rather than having to fight for our place in the warehouse of losses. We drew together in support instead of forcing ourselves apart and into isolation.

Have you felt the hierarchy at play in your life? I’d love to know. Leave a comment in the box below.

I have a folder on my computer called, “Tools Laurie Uses.” My friend was a tech geek to say the least. She earned a Ph.D. in Information and Computer Science from Georgia Tech in 1987. Her dissertation was on fractals, for heaven’s sake. She was a pioneer for women in technology. That’s some pretty left-brained stuff to be sure. Laurie was also super creative. Rarely did we have a talk where she didn’t have knitting in her hands. Quilter, jewelry maker, writer, entrepreneur and more, she loved to dabble and try new creative pursuits at which she soon excelled.

As you might imagine for a tech geek, Laurie was an early adopter of the iPhone and loved a good app. My son’s strongest memory of her was when she handed him her iPhone to play a game that was much more interesting than the solemn conversation the adults were having. Not to mention that the waiting room outside his dad’s ICU room was a stressful place to be. She knew what would help.

Recently I came across a free app that marries photography, video and text to produce a mini online magazine that can be accessed from any browser. Steller has been a fun way to tell stories and I’m pretty sure she would have loved it. (The early adopter in her might have even known about it before me.)

The first day I played with the app was the one month mark after Laurie’s death so she was fittingly the subject of my initial story. Story was our way into learning about each other: sharing what we gleaned from books we read, telling stories of our past, stories of what we learned from the challenges we never asked for, creating stories of what we wanted for the future, etc. I miss her stories especially as I continue to make more of my own without her here to tell them to.

July 17, 2016 would have been Laurie’s 55th birthday. She attracted and was surrounded by creative people. In her honor, a wood artist, Heather Muse, has created a project for volunteers to create and release into the world some LaFo Cupcakes to share her words and honor her spirit that lives on. I write this while I wait for the paint to dry on my own cupcake contribution. Why cupcakes? Listen to Laurie explain that herself and you will understand why we all loved her so much.

In hard times I naturally turn to creativity so this project came with perfect timing. As I planned what I would do with my cupcake, I reflected on how Laurie and I met and significant points in our relationship. Laurie and I were introduced through our book club that started about 20 years ago, through stories. Twenty years of shared books and potluck dinners. We found it remarkable that we have never had a bad meal even though we don’t coordinate it. One time dinner was a delightful set of nothing but salads (and wine, of course.) My cupcake paper reflects books, women and, if you look closely, sharing meals. The icing includes the colors of the self-care bag she brought to me in the hospital on the day of my late husband’s surgery. There is other symbolism in the colors chosen and the creation process but you get the idea. It doesn’t take away the grief but it helps. This cupcake represents a few of the raw ingredients of our relationship and, I hope, transforms them into something that will honor her memory and inspire the person who finds it when I release it.

Happy birthday, Laurie, wherever you are. Gosh, I miss having you around.

Ah, but I wonder what stories you have to tell now.

So with this little cupcake, I hope that you’ll remember whatever really raw ingredients life may bring your way, you have the power to choose and transform them into something sweet, into something loving, and profoundly hopeful.

~ Laurie Foley

]]>My National Park Questhttps://tamarabeachum.com/np-quest/
Thu, 14 Jul 2016 14:25:17 +0000http://tamarabeachum.com/?p=3094A big welcome to those of you participating in the Meaningful Making e-course. I hope you found the quest tool helpful and are ready to start planning your own, whatever that looks like for you. As I mentioned in my article, I have used photography and hiking since that allows me to tap into my physical body, my creativity, and even my spirituality in appreciating the natural world in my grief process. The images below offer a sample of those travels and the creative process. They were taken in or around U.S. National Parks. I hope you find some inspiration for your own quest.

Great practical tips for figuring out who you are at your core after the life-shifting change of retirement. I’m not nearing retirement myself but I can see how these tools and exercises, with foundation in Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, will be useful in that circumstance. Additionally, Cameron’s advice in this book is also practical for anyone who has had a huge change in their life and feels the need to examine the question, “Who am I now?” The stories of how others have used Cameron’s practices are inspirational and geared toward keeping the reader on track. This book would make a great gift for someone on the cusp of retirement.

As we search for a sense of purpose in retirement, we do well to get in touch with the small things that matter to us. Many times, the larger answers that feel elusive are actually closer than we think, present before us in many small clues.

Happily a book of fiction that does a nice job covering the emotions of grief in a real way. I’ve read several that devolve into platitudes and the commonly held myths of grief but not this one. The author also avoided wrapping grief up in a nice pretty package with a neat bow on top. Grief is messy and I prefer it when novels don’t send the message that it’s easy to tie up or bring to a swift end.

Despite a topic that could be perceived as heavy, the story moves along smoothly. I looked forward to reading it each evening. As life would have it, one of my book club friends was dying while I was reading this book. I took it with me to hospice and appreciated the diversion it offered. It was neither too grim nor too fatuous. I think she would have liked it too.

“You’ve been here before. It won’t kill you. It feels like you can’t breathe, but you actually are breathing. It feels like you’ll never stop crying, but you actually will.”

“I’m going to come sit with you tomorrow. I’m good at hospitals,” she said. It was September 28, 2008, the night before my husband had major surgery to remove his cancer and his esophagus along with it. I’m not sure what I was thinking by not planning to have someone sit with me that day. Clearly I wasn’t thinking at all. Thankfully, Laurie and the rest of my book club came to the rescue.

Laurie arrived in the waiting room that morning and presented me with a cute book bag with giant polka dots of blue and green. It was filled with items I didn’t know I would need: tissues, water bottle, lip balm, lotion, hand sanitizer, a shawl for cold waiting rooms, a starter kit for knitting, a small spiral-bound notebook with pen and more.

Others wandered in before work or after kids were seen off to school bearing hot drinks and cheer. Team Ken was formed. These women I had known for a decade or more by then made me laugh and forget why we were sitting in those uncomfortable straight back chairs in tight rows across from cartoonish prints that had us inexplicably looking out castle windows to other castles beyond. The distraction was complete until it became too late in the day and the surgery was taking too long for the news to be good. Some had to go; it was time to get kids from school and think about dinner. Our pastor arrived.

I noticed the surgeon the second he walked through the door, his eyes on the ground, legs propelling him toward a conversation that I could already tell he didn’t want to have. One of “those” conversations. Laurie removed the notepad and pen from the charming polka dot bag and started making notes as he spoke. Stage 3, not stage one. Couldn’t get it all. Radiation and chemo to follow. My chest buzzed. I pulled my legs up into the chair. I was suddenly cold and shivering from my core. “May I ask questions,” Laurie looked at me. I nodded my brain had entered a fog-like state anyway. Laurie, a fact-finder, asked the doctor good question after good question and scribbled diligent notes in the little red notebook. So many things I wanted to know or didn’t know that I wanted to know were recorded there.

When he left all attention turned toward me. The buzzing in my chest was now rising up through my throat in searing heat. Cold seconds before, I now felt aflame. I don’t recall saying I was nauseous but a plastic lined trash can appeared at my side. “You’re not having a heart attack. This is a panic attack,” Laurie said. “It won’t kill you, it just feels like it will.” I laughed.

So much of what happened the rest of that day is a blur. Everyone around me was so supportive, each doing what they could to help me as the doctors and nurses watched over Ken through the end of the surgery and recovery. They each made sure I wasn’t alone in turn. Laurie took my doctor’s number and told her what was happening. A prescription was called in and she left to pick it up for me and make a quick dinner for her own family before returning. The wait went on past dinner and into the evening. Laurie stayed. We were moved to the ICU waiting room. Another friend and her husband came back to keep vigil with me. I had a banana for dinner that I couldn’t finish. Laurie’s calm and non-anxious presence was perceptible and pulled me back toward her across the spectrum of anxiety when I strayed. At long last, I was called back to see Ken and left Laurie sitting in the waiting room with her knitting. She told me later that she watched us through the window to make sure I was alright. She truly was “good at hospitals.”

Ken and I were both Presbyterians but, truth be told, he had become more agnostic over time. When talking to our pastor one day he discussed a new change in his faith. “I have felt the presence of God through angels right here.” I knew exactly who he was talking about. Laurie was one of several angels we had around us. He was in awe of their selflessness and compassion.

While I have never truly lost my sense of spirituality, I have admitted before that I don’t know how to pray in a piece I wrote about my inability to find words that felt sufficient on the eve of Laurie’s surgery after her cancer diagnosis. Throughout her illness, remission and illness again I have tried to be there for her in word and deed but always feeling inadequate in reflection on what she had done for us. Yes, I know it’s not a competition and I really don’t see it that way. I would simply like to return her generosity in good measure, if that can be simple. I make another attempt at prayer. And another at deed.

On what would have been Ken’s fifty-third birthday I had the honor of staying with Laurie over-night in hospice. Her family prepared me that she slept a lot so I packed up my polka dot book bag with a few items I thought I might need including, of course, a spiral notebook and pen. I had learned from the master after all.

When I arrived I was comforted that she called me by name. She was remarkably lucid and alert most of the evening as we chatted off and on between her catnaps. She recognized the polka dot bag. I shared that when I told my son where I was going for the night he remembered her as the one who let him play games on her iPhone outside Ken’s hospital room. Noting that it was Ken’s birthday she asked me how I felt about that. “It’s bittersweet,” I told her honestly. Being with her on that day felt like a divinely conspired event, a thank you from both Ken and me for the role she played in our lives. An answer, of sorts, to a prayer though naturally I would have preferred a far different answer.

On that night I learned more about how to be “good at hospitals” from Laurie like the perfect ratio of crushed ice to water. In my toolkit, I now have a procedure for how to help someone who can’t get out of bed to brush their teeth with a real toothbrush and toothpaste. Imagine, for a minute, what a simple pleasure that is. Laurie luxuriated in the task and it was a joy to watch.

When, addled from a recent dose of medication or a brief sleep, she said odd things, I went with it. Correcting someone in this state just causes anxiety and no one needs more of that. At one point she attempted to lean forward and spoke to me as if we were on a retreat.
L: “So Tamara, tell me what you want to get out of the weekend?”
T: “I’m sorry, what?”
L: “What do you want to get out of the weekend? Accomplishments? Set priorities?”
T: “…I think I’d like to work on letting go, on finding peace.”
She nodded, sat back and relaxed.

We talked about the expressions of love that surrounded her: the mountain of cards, the dresser-top full of flowers, the mini ice creams tucked in the freezer, the prayer shawl folded over the bottom of her bed rail where she could see it always. She told me who was responsible for the latter, a common Facebook friend, so when Laurie slept I made sure that Grace knew it was there. She told me the story of the Gracynjoy Prayer Shawl’s creation and how tribe members of Patti Digh’s Life Is a Verb Camp, at which Laurie presented in 2013, had wrapped themselves in the shawl to place within it their love, prayers and admiration before it was sent to Laurie.

January 10, 2010 post on Ken’s Caring Bridge journal: “…The story here is that [Ken and his family are] deeply loved and this corner of the ICU waiting area is a calm raft where people are bound together by that love and caring for each other. We are praying together and feel your prayers, too. Thank you. Laurie”

That’s the story here too now. Laurie is on her own calm raft. Just as we did back in 2010, she and her family feel love surrounding them today. I can’t say it is easy but there is more peace. That’s what I pray for her now, deep peace.

It feels right that Laurie is leaving us this Lenten season, a time of reflection where we enter into the darkness before coming into the light of resurrection. (Well, as right as it can anyway.) This time last year Laurie felt called to create an online group where she shared her personal daily Lenten devotionals with others. This devotional is my final offering, in deed and prayer, to Laurie:

Dear God - Thank you for the life and love of Laurie. If there are angels personified, she is surely one. We are blessed to know and be inspired by her. Help us navigate the darkness that we begin to walk through as she enters into the light of pure love. Enfold her in your grace as we carry on changed and better for her presence in our lives. She is - and we are - transformed.

The last words I said to her were, “I love you, Laurie.” “I love you too,” are her final words to me. I will carry those always. Love lives on.

(Prayer Shawl collage photo credit: Laura Goyer Photography)

Do you have a Laurie in your life? Someone who has changed you for the better? How do you let them know what they mean to you? What words and deeds have felt significant to you? I’d love to know. Leave a comment in the box below.